The Thirty Before Thirty List

Chapter Eighteen

The Arabic language college replied to me the following day and as fate – or divine will – would have it, they had availability in their beginner’s evening class on a Thursday, which was at the same time as Zakariya’s level two class. They also had slots on Monday and Wednesday, but no one needed to know that. I replied to their email to let them know that I would be joining them the Thursday after New Year’s Day with the fees in cash and sat back with a huge grin on my face. In a couple of days, I had organised and prepped for two items on the list and I felt massively accomplished because of it.

It had been almost four months since I embarked on this list-completing journey and I had already achieved so much. I had applied to go back to studying; I could run a decent distance without collapsing or having a heart attack; I had a beautiful wardrobe and had learnt how to apply my makeup properly; I had read bloody Ulysses . And now I was about to learn Arabic, the language of the Holy Qur’an and do a detox. As numbers ten and eleven would both take a while to complete, I excitedly moved on to number twelve, eager to find out what it was. I nearly choked on my tea when I read: Trek Snowdon .

Trek Snowdon? The only trek I knew anything about was Star Trek and even then, my knowledge was sketchy. I had never trekked for anything in my life, not unless you counted walking up Muswell Hill. How was I going to climb a mountain? Then I reminded myself that I hadn’t been able to run before and yet there I was, running through the backstreets of Haringey three times a week, often in the dark, often holding my keys between my fingers should I need to use them as a weapon against a predator. Trekking a little mountain in Wales would be a doddle compared to that. Hopefully someone – i.e. Lucy – would agree to do it with me.

I had a vague recollection of reading this entry before, when I first flicked through the notebook. I wracked my brains for what else I had seen that day, but it all happened so fast that I couldn’t remember. I decided not to check or try to recall what I had seen anymore and keep true to my plan of only reading the next items when it was time to do them.

Carefully putting the book back into my work tote bag, I went downstairs to wait for Malik to come home. He was due to arrive any moment and Ma, with a tiny bit of help from me, had cooked his favourite Bengali meal: creamy chicken korma, fragrant pulao rice and juicy lamb kebabs. I was in charge of shaping the kebabs and peeling the garlic. While that might sound easy, trust me when I say it wasn’t. Ma made me peel TEN BULBS. Then she showed me how to blend and store them with a bit of salt and oil so we could use the paste for future curries. Despite scrubbing my hands and showering, the pungent smell of fresh garlic still lingered on my fingers.

What smelt infinitely better was the deliciously creamy korma. It had been teasing me all day, reminding me of Eid morning, for which the elaborate meal was usually reserved. I couldn’t wait to dive in and make the most of the time I had before the Whole 30 programme started. With three days left to go until the New Year, I had to make every bite count.

The front door flew open as I began walking down the stairs and Ma rushed to greet Malik like he had been gone for ten years as opposed to ten days. He looked well: tanned and a little bit rounder in the face. It suited him and I went over for a hug once Ma was done gushing over how much she missed him and why hadn’t he texted her more often. My parents barely looked at me when I returned from my sleepover at Dina’s house. Trust me, only other South Asian girls know what it’s like to be the eldest daughter with no other sisters and a princely younger brother. I had it better than some – and I supposed others had it better than me – but there was no denying that in our culture, sons are often revered. Daughters are loved, but that little bit less. You got used to it, I had got used to it. But if I ever got married and had both a son and daughter, I swore to make sure that the love and chores were distributed equally.

‘Wow, who is this person and what have you done to my sister?’ Malik exclaimed, appraising my new khaki co-ord; a vast improvement from my usual stained, woolly onesie.

‘Ma used the same expression when I offered to help with the cooking the other day,’ I responded dryly. ‘So your lines are the same as our almost fifty-year-old mother.’

Malik grinned, kicking off his shoes and leaving them haphazardly in the hallway. ‘Last week I would have said something about you looking like a fifty-year-old mother, but I guess I can’t do that anymore. How the hell did you pull this out of the bag?’

‘It’s amazing what cash to splash and an entire day spent in Selfridge’s can do,’ I said, following him into the dining room, where I had laid the table earlier. ‘How was your trip? And more importantly, how was the company?’ I gave him a giant wink as I said this and he glared at me.

‘It was epic,’ he said. ‘Thai food is so good and so cheap and I got a Thai massage every single day for less than a tenner.’

‘Sounds like bliss,’ I said wistfully. I had barely travelled. My parents weren’t big on holidays. Baba visited Bangladesh every few years, once he had saved up enough. He spent thousands whenever he went because he gave a lot of money to his vulnerable relatives there and then there were presents for everyone he visited. The huge cost meant that he couldn’t go often and he certainly couldn’t take us all every time he went. I had only visited twice as a child myself and I could barely remember either trip. As for other holidays, I tried when I was at uni and the answer was a firm no. Girls shouldn’t travel abroad alone. According to them, it was too unsafe and I couldn’t remember what the other reasons were because I was so livid at the double standards; Malik had just returned from a boys’ trip to Spain at the time. I hadn’t bothered to try again. Fighting for what I wanted to do wasn’t in me back then.

What if Noah had travel plans on his list? If he did, this time there was no way I would let my parents stop me. And if it wasn’t on the list, I was going to do it anyway.

After our super indulgent dinner, Ma and I cleaned up while Baba and Malik relaxed in the living room; Baba chewing on crunchy betelnut wrapped in bright green paan leaves, his biggest weakness. I could hear the low murmurs of their voices and when I came in with mugs of tea and a plate of mishti, they fell silent.

‘What’s going on? Kita oiseh?’ I asked suspiciously, eyeing them both.

‘Kichu nai,’ Baba said. At the same time Malik said, ‘Baba’s got another biodata for you.’

‘I’m not interested,’ I said immediately, before another word could be spoken on the topic. ‘Not after what happened last time.’

‘What happened last time?’ Ma asked, entering the room and sitting down with her own mug.

‘I’m not interested, Ma,’ I repeated, this time my voice taking on a slightly pathetic, desperate tone. ‘I trusted you last time when you told me that I had autonomy over whom I wished I pursue, but it was all a facade. The minute I said no, you both turned on me and gave me hell! I’m not going through it again.’

‘“Whom”,’ Malik mocked, chuckling over my choice of words. ‘“Facade”, “autonomy” .?.?. I like that one.’

‘Shut up, Malik!’ I scowled at my brother. It was all right for him. He could do whatever he wanted without everyone getting their lungis and dupattas in a twist.

‘Look, Maya,’ Ma said calmly, using the same voice she reserved for difficult children at school. ‘We were shocked last time, which was all. Zakariya was perfect in every single way, we didn’t understand why you were rejecting him.’

For the hundredth time, Ma and Baba began reeling off the list of all the reasons why Zakariya was so great. He was educated. Successful. Handsome. Tall. From a good family. He had his own property (ignoring the fact that he didn’t live in it and still lived with his parents). He was nice. Polite. Respectful. Fosha – aka ‘light-skinned’.

‘Oh, here we go,’ I muttered. ‘Maya is too dark, her complexion is too dirty to find anyone decent, she should be grateful.’

‘I’m not trying to be evil, Maya, I’m saying it how it is,’ Ma continued, ignoring the fact that I was putting on a rude, mimicking voice. ‘You know what things are like in our culture. You get judged on the colour of your skin. The darker you are, the harder it is to find a good proposal. That’s the way things are, there’s no point in burying our heads in the sand.’

‘Ma, you can’t be serious,’ Malik piped up, this time looking genuinely affronted. ‘Plenty of my Bengali and Pakistani friends are with girls darker than them. Who cares?’

‘Love marriages, that’s why,’ Baba scoffed. ‘But it’s the parents of the grooms who see the biodata first and if they’re not happy with any part of it, the groom won’t get a look in.’

I listened to them go back and forth, my insides churning with nausea, anger, sadness.

‘Are you going to give me a bottle of Fair and Lovely again, Baba?’ I finally said, trying to contain the emotions stewing inside of me. ‘You know that cancer-causing concoction full of chemicals that you gave me when I was sixteen?’

Shortly after I sat my GCSEs, Baba came back from Bangladesh and along with the customary cotton shalwar kameez from Aarong, there was a bottle of the skin-lightening cream that my aunts had sent for me.

I was mortified.

I had grown up hearing comments about my offensive skin tone, how it was such a shame that Malik had inherited the fairer gene, how it was a great pity that I looked more like my dad than my mum, how it was so strange that Pretty and Pinky were whiter than me, though their mum was darker than mine.

‘I’m sure I didn’t,’ Baba protested half-heartedly. ‘And anyway, if I did, I was only trying to help you.’

‘You didn’t use that crap, did you?’ Malik demanded, looking at me like he was disappointed.

‘I did,’ I shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I used it for two years and it dried my skin so much that it began to crack. I guess that’s how they made you fairer, by dehydrating your skin.’

‘I can’t believe you did that,’ Malik muttered. ‘You’re crazy. Why would you?’

‘Of course you can’t believe it,’ I snapped back. ‘How would you know what it’s like to be me, Prince Ali, Fabulous He?’

‘What the hell are you on about?’

‘ Aladdin ? Oh, forget it. All of you can forget it.’

With that, I got up and left the living room, leaving behind my tea that had now turned cold and held no appeal.

‘I can’t believe you made me do this stupid diet with you,’ Lucy growled at me on our first day back at the office after the holidays. Admittedly, she didn’t look as great as she usually did, more tired and less glowing, even though she had just got back from holiday. The same went for me, but that was my default setting anyway.

‘I’m pretty sure you said something about wanting to try this “programme” for a while?’ I replied airily, gently placing my new work bag on the desk. ‘And speaking of supporting me and my journey .?.?.’

‘NO, Maya! I am NOT doing another one of your crazy activities! This list is your thing, not mine. Yes, I’ll support you where I can but if I don’t want to do it, I’m not going to, OK?’

Gosh. Hangry Lucy was so different from sweet, funny, full of bread, cheese and pasta Lucy. I guess I would have to ask Dina if she fancied trekking Snowdon with me. And there was always Malik if I really got desperate.

‘I like that you’re wearing the outfits we chose,’ Lucy said after lunch, nodding at the beige high-waisted trousers I was wearing with a fluffy white jumper and the bracelet she gave me. My hair wasn’t looking as amazing as when I had first left the salon, but it was still lovely and far better than any style I had worn before. It was the first time she had said something non-work related all morning and I wondered if there was something else on her mind, other than the lack of food.

‘ You chose, you mean,’ I corrected her. ‘I would never have been able to buy this stuff on my own.’

She smiled and looked away, turning back to her computer screen. I opened my mouth to ask her if she was OK and if there was anything bothering her, but she got up then, probably to go to the loo. The question dissolved on my lips.

It was freezing when I left work that evening and I wished I had worn my giant padded jacket. My beautiful new camel coat made me look good, but did a rubbish job of protecting me against the harsh January cold, even with the blanket scarf wrapped around my neck and my new calf-skin gloves on my hands. But as I was seeing Zakariya later, sacrificing style for comfort wasn’t an option.

The college where the Arabic lessons took place was in a backstreet in Whitechapel, a short walk from East London Mosque. It had been years since I had been to the area. We visited a lot when we were younger because Chacha and Chachi used to live in one of those gigantic brown brick council estates somewhere in Aldgate. Malik and I loved it. Growing up, there weren’t many Bengalis near where we lived and visiting my aunt and uncle almost felt like going to Bangladesh. Their estate was mostly full of Bengalis with a few newly arrived Somalis and Jews who had been there since the Second World War. Children were allowed to play freely in the estate, a novelty for us since Ma never let us play in the streets at home. There were battered playgrounds with broken swings where we would play ‘It’ and ‘Forty-forty’ with brown girls in brightly coloured dresses paired with old jeans and sandals, their thick black hair slick with oil. Clothes hung out to dry outside every flat, from the balconies and windows, offering a much-needed splash of colour against the dull brick and iron bars protecting the lower floors from intruders. Lungis, sarees, dresses and shirts flew gently in the breeze and there was always a distinct scent of curry in the air.

My brother and I usually spent a week at Christmas and two weeks over the summer with Pretty and Pinky, running riot in the estate with all the other kids, feeling more like us than we ever did in north London. I loved it all.

Whitechapel had had a major facelift since the days of our childhood and I wondered how much longer the Bengalis and other communities would be able to continue to afford living and working there. Brick Lane, once known as Curry Mile, was almost entirely lost to London’s bougie hipsters and it was only a matter of time before Bangla Town was completely gentrified and handed over to those earning big bucks in the nearby City.

It was dark as I walked past the synagogue and then the mosque and turned into a narrow side street with terraced Victorian townhouses on either side. The ‘college’ turned out to be in the basement of one of the townhouses and I carefully trod down the steel steps, taking comfort in the fact that Zakariya was going to be there and therefore it couldn’t be too dodgy. I was getting serious Jack the Ripper vibes as I retreated further underground.

I needn’t have worried though. The interior of the building was nothing like the gloomy exterior. It was bright and modern and there was a little reception area as soon as I entered. The receptionist, a pretty, petite girl in a light-blue hijab, led me to the room where the beginner’s class took place. I was relatively early, so it was empty bar the teacher, who was still setting up. Ustadha Salma was a stout woman with a tightly wrapped white headscarf and a stripy abaya.

‘Marhaba! Ahlan wa sahlan!’ she called out to me enthusiastically in a thick, Arabic accent. I returned the greeting shyly and introduced myself as she gave me a form to fill in and I handed over the payment for the month. The desks were set up in pairs facing the whiteboard and soon the room was full of students and chatter. A girl called Nadira sat next to me. She was gorgeous, with a flawless golden complexion and silky honey-coloured hair. She said salaam and we small-talked quietly until the class began.

The hour and a half flew and by the end of it, I’d not only learnt my Arabic numbers up to ten, the days of the week and some other basic nouns, but I had made a new friend. Nadira had to rush off but we agreed to go for dinner after class the following week.

Pulling on all my winter paraphernalia and grabbing my bag, I trudged up the stairs, my heels clanging against the steel and my mind so full that I had completely forgotten why I had chosen the Thursday class in the first place. Until I heard him call out my name.

‘Maya?’

I turned to find Zakariya at the corner with a couple of other guys, who walked away as I approached him.

‘Hey, Assalaamu Alaikum,’ I said, shivering. ‘You, OK?’

‘Wa Alaikum Salaam. Alhamdulillah, kaifa halik anti?’ His classical Arabic, the dialect we were learning in class, was really cute and I smiled.

‘Alhamdulillah, bi khair,’ I replied slowly, trying my best to pronounce the words correctly.

‘You joined then?’

‘I did. Thank you for the recommendation, it was brilliant. I love the teacher, she’s patient and thorough. Made a new friend as well.’

‘Great. You getting the Tube?’

‘Yeah, what about you? Not driving today?’

‘Why, were you expecting a lift?’ he joked, stuffing his cold hands into the pockets of his navy wool coat.

‘I don’t expect, I hope,’ I joked back.

‘Well, the most you’re going to get today is a cup of chai while we walk to the station. Which way are you going?’

‘Hammersmith and City to King’s Cross, then the Piccadilly Line. You?’

‘Same to King’s Cross and then the Northern.’

We fell into step and easy conversation as we walked down to the busy main road and towards Whitechapel Station. Halfway down, he stopped at a stall and bought us two cups of masala tea and I accepted one gratefully. As we were about to carry on walking, he looked at me a little nervously.

‘Are you hungry?’ he said, almost as if he was expecting me to say no or tell him off.

‘I am,’ I admitted as I took a sip of my tea. ‘My stomach growled through the entire lesson. It was so embarrassing.’

‘Me too and it just so happens, that restaurant over there has the best Bangladeshi food in London. It’s basic, nothing fancy, but the food is amazing.’

‘Say no more,’ I replied, my mouth already watering. ‘Let’s finish our tea and grab some dinner.’ It was only after we entered the restaurant that I remembered that I was on the Whole 30 and couldn’t eat rice, and I shouldn’t have had the milky tea either. Not to mention the fact that I was wearing an expensive white fluffy jumper that I could easily spill curry on, ruining it forever. Oil and turmeric stains were a mission to get out. And my beautiful new coat and scarf would smell of curry when we left.

But we were already inside and Zakariya was about to sit down. If I said any of what I was thinking, he would regard me as some sort of high-maintenance coconut. So I swallowed my reservations and sat down across from him, delicately placing my coat, scarf and bag on the chair next to me.

Zakariya was quiet and contemplative as we waited for the waiter to arrive. He was in his work clothes; a suit and shirt and I wondered what we looked like together. Did we look like a couple or did we look like friends? We probably looked like siblings.

‘What are you getting?’ I asked him as we read over the menu and I tried to determine what was the most Whole 30 compliant. The restaurant served ‘bhorta’, a Bangladeshi speciality where the vegetables or fish are smoked and then mashed up and mixed with onions, coriander, chillies, mustard oil and spices. It’s delicious but not without rice. For the fiftieth time in three days, I questioned my decision to do the Whole Stupid 30.

‘Everything,’ he replied. ‘I want the buffet but I’ll order some fresh paratha as well.’

We got our plates and headed over to the buffet station, where I gently lifted out some lamb and chicken, careful not to add any extra sauce to my plate, only whatever was already clinging to the meat. There was so much oil that it had floated to the top of the curry and created a shiny layer, like an oil spill in the ocean.

I returned to our table, where Zakariya’s plate was piled high with pulao rice and four different curries swimming in oil. He looked at my choices in horror.

‘What have you done to your plate? Where’s the rice?’

‘Erm, I’m not eating rice this month,’ I said miserably.

‘Why not? Don’t tell me you’re one of those nutters who doesn’t eat carbohydrates?’

‘I do usually, but remember that list I told you about? Doing this programme called the Whole 30 is part of it.’

‘You don’t look very happy about it,’ he observed solemnly as he began to dig in with vigour with his hands. I picked up my cutlery. I had to do everything that was in my power not to ruin my beautiful new outfit.

‘I’m not,’ I admitted. ‘But I wasn’t happy reading over a thousand pages of Ulysses and I still did it. If I only do the things on the list that are easy, then what’s the point?’

‘True,’ he agreed. ‘And you found this list on the Tube, you said?’

‘Yes. Well, it was in a notebook. But the notebook was left behind on the Tube.’

‘I don’t know if that’s the coolest or craziest thing ever. To find a random list and then start doing the things on it, no matter how difficult or challenging they are .?.?. You’re something else, Maya.’

I caught his eye; he was gazing at me almost in bewilderment. I shrugged.

‘It’s changed my life,’ I said. ‘The more things I do, the more I experience and the more I grow and get out of my shell. It’s pretty liberating.’

‘Hang on,’ Zakariya said suddenly, ‘is that why you attended the art class? Was it on the list?’

Surprised (but also not surprised) that once again he had opened up a contentious topic, I wondered if I should use the opportunity to tell him off again. But as I looked at his earnest face, I couldn’t bring myself to say something that would alter the mood, so I nodded.

‘Yep. Well, the list actually said I had to attend an art class and I booked that one without thinking. I had no idea what I was in for.’

‘So you really were there by mistake? I’m sorry for my idiotic comments. I often say the wrong thing at the wrong time.’

‘It’s OK,’ I shrugged amicably. ‘It happens to all of us.’

The night flew by and we talked about work, the Arabic lessons, his move to Dubai and all the other things I had done, and was planning to do, on my list. When I told him about trekking Mount Snowdon, he looked at me in surprise.

‘The charity I volunteer for is doing a sponsored Snowdon trek next month, I think,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t going to go, but if you want to do it, I’ll join you.’

He volunteered for a charity? Why was I so hasty in rejecting him? It made complete sense at the time. He was judgy at the art class and arrogant at the dekha dekhi. How was I supposed to know that he was, in fact, an endearing, Arabic-learning, charity-volunteering, mountain-trekking knight in shining armour who rescued annoying girls stuck in the rain? Yes, he was serious and he didn’t laugh much, but who cared? If I wanted to laugh all the time, I would have looked for a comedian.

I’d had so many arguments with my parents about not giving him another chance and it was beginning to look like they were right. Now it was too late. He was no longer interested in me; his pride had been bruised and he was moving to another country. The most I could hope for was to be his friend.

Zakariya polished off three full plates of food and dessert, while I watched him miserably, wishing I could do the same. He also insisted on footing the bill, his justification being that there was no point in me paying for my share since I ate so little. I let him. It was the first time I’d had dinner with a man that wasn’t some guy I was doing a project with at uni and it felt nice to have someone look out for me.

Afterwards, we walked down to the station together and caught the same train to King’s Cross, the conversation still flowing like a river. There weren’t any pauses, comfortable or otherwise.

On the train, we sat across from each other and I couldn’t help but compare him to the last man I had conversed with on the train. Zakariya – or Zak as he preferred his friends to call him (I was a friend now? Wow!) – was the opposite of Noah. He was as dark as Noah was fair, his build leaner and narrower, his style muted and subtle. He was also shorter, with shiny black hair. Noah’s was more of a medium brown and looked coarser than Zak’s.

In the looks department, Noah was a head turner, but Zak was also attractive. Not in the obvious, ‘look at how hot I am’ kind of way, more in a slightly geeky, well-mannered sort of way, if that made any sense. I wasn’t sure whose look I preferred, but based on personality and the fact that I had spent much more time with him, Zak had definitely taken over the role of Leading Man in my life.

King’s Cross Station came far too quickly. We both got off, with Zak hanging back so I could alight first. His manners were impeccable and I wondered if his dad was like that with his mum. His dad hadn’t looked chivalrous. He looked like any other uncle who didn’t have a beard and chewed too much paan.

‘This is where we part,’ I said brightly a few minutes later. I felt an odd, tugging sensation deep in my ribcage. ‘Thanks for dinner and the Arabic school recommendation.’

‘It was my pleasure,’ he replied, giving me an easy smile in return. ‘See you next week, Insha’allah.’

‘See you.’

I turned and began to walk in the direction of the Piccadilly Line and it took all my willpower not to look back to see if he was watching me.